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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26916901">Balladeer (The Balance #5)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskpeterson/pseuds/Dusk%20Peterson'>Dusk Peterson (duskpeterson)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Eternal Dungeon [23]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1880s, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Adoption, Alternate Universe - 1880s, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - Brothers, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Family, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Industrial Revolution, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Original, Alternate Universe - Prison, Alternate Universe - Siblings, Alternate Universe - Writing &amp; Publishing, Ballads, Bisexual Male Character(s), Brothers, Coming of Age, Courage, Dungeons, Ethical Issues, Family, Gen, Labor Unions, Labour, Original Fiction, Poetry, Prisonfic, Queer Gen, Rebellions, Rebels, Recovery, Siblings, Songwriting, Strike - Freeform, Strikes, Writers, Writing, abuse recovery, don't need to read other stories in the series, employers, historical fic, labor, laborers, original gen, poets, torturers, workers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:01:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,665</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26916901</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskpeterson/pseuds/Dusk%20Peterson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>"Yeslin stood irresolute. Tangling with torturers seemed the ultimate in danger."</b>
</p>
<p>Sometimes it takes an outsider to point out the obvious.</p>
<p>Once an abandoned street-lad, Yeslin Bainbridge has become a young man with a mission: to lead the commoner laborers in a fight against the elite men who exploit them. He knows exactly where to start his mission.</p>
<p>The Eternal Dungeon. Here elite torturers and guards force commoners to offer confessions to crimes they may or may not have committed. Here laborers aid the torturers and guards, unaware that they are being manipulated. Here, if anywhere, Yeslin can make his initial mark on the queendom.</p>
<p>But he faces many challenges: Officials who seek to hide the dungeon's secrets from outsiders. Dungeon traditions that foil efforts by outsiders to learn the truth. Most of all, Yeslin faces his own conscience, for he knows that, if he is to fulfill his mission, he must lie to the person he loves most.</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskpeterson/profile#w">Boilerplate warning for all my stories + my rating system.</a>
  </i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Original Male Character &amp; Original Male Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Eternal Dungeon [23]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/15843</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>A Whisper to the  Dark Side, Chains: The Powerfic Archive, Historical Fic, Platonic Relationships, Siblings</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><i><b>Author's note:</b> This is the fifth and final story in </i>The Balance<i>, the third volume in the Eternal Dungeon series. You don't need to read the other stories in the series to understand this one.</i></p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><i>The year 360, the sixth month. (The year 1881 Fallow by the Old Calendar.)</i>
<br/> 
</p>
<p>Historians have paid so much attention to Layle Smith, the High Seeker
of the Eternal Dungeon, that little has been written about his companions.
In particular, historians have neglected the man who was, by all accounts,
the High Seeker's most intimate companion: Elsdon Taylor.
</p>
<p>I leave aside the endless – and frequently distasteful – speculation
concerning the nature of the relationship between Layle Smith and Elsdon
Taylor. That the two Seekers held strong affection for each other is all
we can know for certain, and all that we need know. There is no reason
for historians to be forever flinging open the bedroom doors of their research
subjects.
</p>
<p>So obsessed have historians proved to be with matters of sex that it
has not occurred to any of them to ask a very simple question: Why, in
the year 360, did Elsdon Taylor begin to hold opinions that were opposed
to the opinions held by every other torturer in the Eternal Dungeon, especially
the views of the High Seeker?
</p>
<p>Elsdon Taylor, after all, had been rescued from death by the High Seeker.
He had been trained by the man, shared living quarters with him, nursed
him through his illnesses. And yet, at a time when no other torturer in
the Queendom of Yclau questioned the conditions of his work, Elsdon Taylor
abruptly underwent a startling transformation in his beliefs.
</p>
<p>We may never know what caused the young Seeker to depart from the shadow
of his mentor . . .
</p>
<p>—<i>Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon.</i>
<br/> 
</p>
<p><b>CHAPTER ONE</b>
</p>
<p>Leaning on the wooden handle of his iron shovel, Yeslin Bainbridge gasped
for breath as he wiped the back of his blistered hand across his forehead.
The hand came away slick with sweat. His chest was covered with sweat too,
fierce with fire from the furnace before him. He would have liked to take
off his shirt – he had enough sense not to wear an undervest on a job like
this – but the Boss Man wouldn't permit it.
</p>
<p>Or so he'd been told. The Boss Man hadn't shown his face yet. Nor would
he, Yeslin had been made to understand. Only his voice.
</p>
<p>"Hey, boy, why you stopping?" asked Wade, not pausing in his own stoking.
"You think this is one of those picnics you masters hold?"
</p>
<p>Wade had pitched his voice to be heard all down the corridor; the other
stokers laughed. Yeslin could see them clearly in the furnace light: a
dozen men of varying builds and ethnicities, but all young enough to shovel
coal for hours . . . till they reached the age where their backs gave out
and their throats wheezed from the accumulated dust of the coals.
</p>
<p>Yeslin was the youngest of them, just nineteen. That placed certain
challenges in his path.
</p>
<p>He straightened up. He was not full of muscle, but he made up for it
– he had been told in the past – by the expression that came onto his face
when he confronted a bully.
</p>
<p>It had taken him many months to learn to adopt that expression when
he himself was being bullied. It had been his brother who had taught him
that meekly accepting being bullied was as bad as encouraging another man
to be a bully. His brother, he had found during the past three years, had
good instincts in such matters.
</p>
<p>"Oh, aye?" he said. He could not do anything about his accent, which
had been beaten into him by a schoolmaster who had higher aspirations for
him than his drunken birth-parents did, but he knew how to speak the local
dialect, and would do so when the occasion warranted it. "So tell me, which
am I? A commoner? If so, this is a matter for fists, ain't it? Or am I
one of the elite? If so, speak respect to your better, lad."
</p>
<p>Laughter came from the other stokers. Ward looked confused and a little
frightened. Yeslin had guessed that this approach would have that effect.
Wade was from the First District, where speaking disrespectfully to a man
of the higher class was a killing matter. It must be a continuous trial
to him to live in the capital of Yclau, where matters of rank were determined
by speech and the cut of a man's suit. Someone like Yeslin, who spoke as
though he were mid-class, yet wore the clothes of a laborer . . . No wonder
Wade was angry to be working alongside him. No wonder the little jibes.
</p>
<p>Suddenly filled with sympathy for the man, Yeslin reached over and slapped
him on the back. "Nay, mate, I'm only making mock. Don't blame me for the
accent I had beaten into me."
</p>
<p>Wade's expression cleared. "Yeah, boy. Can't blame a man for following
the orders of his betters."
</p>
<p>This gave him the opening he wanted. "I suppose that it's easier to
follow the orders of certain torturers, rather than the orders of other
torturers. What I mean to say is, there are reasonable bosses, and then
there is the other type—"
</p>
<p>"Seekers," said Leo with a frown. A brawny man, he looked like the elite's
caricatures of idiot commoners. Yeslin had already marked him as the quickest-minded
man among the stokers. "They're called Seekers, not torturers. They seek
the truth about the crimes that the prisoners have committed."
</p>
<p>"So they <i>claim</i>," countered Yeslin, but this observation prompted
so many frowns that he changed tactics. "You've seen this for yourself?"
</p>
<p>Curt, a sandy-haired youth, said, "We don't need to. We got the <i>Code
of Seeking</i>."
</p>
<p>He pretended ignorance. "What's that?"
</p>
<p>"Here." Leo reached into the breast pocket of his shirt, pulled out
a slender object that was no bigger than the man's hand, and tossed it
toward Yeslin.
</p>
<p>Yeslin caught the object automatically with his free hand and stared
down at it. He would have feigned astonishment at this point if he had
not been so busy being genuinely astonished. A book. Written by the elite.
In the breast pocket of a stoker.
</p>
<p>All around him now was laughter. "Catching him off-guard, you are, Leo.
He didn't look for that." "Guess he thinks none of us can read. Those fellows
in the lighted world – they think they're better than us." "Aye, they don't
understand us up there."
</p>
<p>"Nay, I figured on you knowing your letters." Yeslin held up the book
on his palm. "But bosses giving out free books to their laborers – now,
<i>that's</i>
something to ballad about."
</p>
<p>He had said the wrong thing; he knew that, the moment he spoke. The
laughter and smiles disappeared; the men exchanged glances.
</p>
<p>It was Leo who replied, in a gruff voice, "We don't gossip about our
work to the lighted world. You think <i>you're</i> going to gossip, well
. . ." He exchanged looks with the others. The stokers had been drifting
together during this conversation, no longer strung like beads along the
long, narrow corridor on which the dungeon's furnaces were located. Now
they began to shift together, massing into one group, in a manner that
Yeslin needed no interpreter to understand.
</p>
<p>He said quickly, "I'm no gossip." No gossip indeed. He was something
more important than that, but it would take time to explain himself to
the stokers.
</p>
<p>"Aye?" Wade's eyes were narrowed. "Who are you, then? You ask a lot
of questions. You don't answer none."
</p>
<p>So he told them. No names, but he told them about his family, and about
his new family after that, and how all that had ended. By the time he was
through, the men were all relaxed again.
</p>
<p>"Aye, well." Leo scratched his head. Being an indoor worker, he was
capless, wearing the rough denim uniform issued to all the dungeon's stokers.
From what little Yeslin had seen, the dungeon's elite didn't dress much
better. "The fates will do that to a man: take him up to the heights, then
drop him again. 'Least you're not all sour about it."
</p>
<p>"Nay," Yeslin replied, scooping up more coal with his shovel. "These
things happen. 'Tis probably for the best. I wouldn't want to be one of
<i>them</i>."
</p>
<p>He expected emphatic nods, even if some of those nods came from hypocrites
who would gladly have embraced the wealth of the world if chance wandered
their way. What he received instead was indifferent shrugs.
</p>
<p>This was going to be more difficult than he'd anticipated.
</p>
<p>He tried again. "So the tor— The Seekers. They treat us well?"
</p>
<p>There were uneasy looks then, among the stokers. Leo said quickly, "Well
enough."
</p>
<p>"Oh, come now, Leo," said Jerry, a married man who was inclined to talk
at length about his six young ones. "Be honest. You're as worried as the
rest of us."
</p>
<p>"Worried?" Yeslin raised his eyebrows.
</p>
<p>"'Bout our jobs," said Curt. "There's talk of 'lectrifying the whole
dungeon – of doing away with the coal furnaces. Doing away with our jobs."
</p>
<p>"It's all rumor," said Leo with a growl.
</p>
<p>"What are you going to do if it's true?" asked Yeslin.
</p>
<p>Wade shrugged. "Look for other stoking jobs, in the lighted world. What
else can we do?"
</p>
<p>"Well . . ." said Yeslin slowly.
</p>
<p>But Leo cut him off. "Listen!"
</p>
<p>Everyone stood still. Away down toward the end of the corridor came
a sound, indefinable at first, then growing louder, like the rustling of
a thousand pieces of paper in a clerk's office.
</p>
<p>"Work's done for the night." Leo tossed his shovel aside. "The day shift
will be coming 'long in an hour or two. Let's go eat."
</p>
<p>He had not learned what he needed to know. To steal time, he pretended
that his boot had come untied. Kneeling down, he said, "Boss Man gives
decent hours. Only eight hours of work."
</p>
<p>Wade snorted. "In the summer. Come winter, it's fourteen hours."
</p>
<p>"We follow the sun," Curt explained, bringing out a face-cloth from
his trousers pocket to wipe the coal dust from his face. "Those were bats
you heard, returning at dawn to the cave this dungeon lies in. In the summer,
they come home soon. In the winter, they seem to stay forever in the lighted
world."
</p>
<p>"Seekers and guards, they follow the same hours." Leo frowned down at
Yeslin, who was continuing to fiddle with his bootstring.
</p>
<p>"Aye?" said Yeslin, taking care not to raise his eyes. "Well, that sort
of schedule must be easier for the young Seekers than the old Seekers.
Or do they have young Seekers?"
</p>
<p>"Oh, aye," said Curt, walking blithely into the lure. "Youngest one
is twenty-three. That's Mr. Taylor."
</p>
<p>His fingers tightened on the bootstring, to the point where he almost
cut himself. "Aye? Don't think I've seen him. Does he live in the dungeon?"
</p>
<p>That prompted more laughter from the stokers. "All the Seekers live
in the dungeon," said Jerry, his voice kindly. "None of them leave here.
Least of all Mr. Taylor. He's the High Seeker's love-mate—"
</p>
<p>"That's enough!" Leo's voice turned sharp. "The High Seeker, he won't
stand for gossip, and neither do we. That's our pride, or have all you
forgotten that?"
</p>
<p>There was a murmur of acknowledgment from the other stokers. They looked
shame-faced now, especially Jerry. Leo turned his attention back to Yeslin.
"You're the worst man at boot-tying that I've ever seen in my life. You
need a hand there?"
</p>
<p>"I've broken the string." This was true enough; Jerry's remark had caused
Yeslin to suddenly jerk his hand. "No worries; I got an extra string in
my pocket. You go ahead. I'll catch up."
</p>
<p>"Don't linger," Leo warned. "Boss Man don't like us staying in the inner
dungeon after our work is through. Okay, lads—" He slammed closed the door
to Yeslin's furnace and turned to the others. "Let's get our meal pails
open, and see what we've got, and then steal from Jerry's pail."
</p>
<p>Jerry yelped. Laughing, Ward said, "Well, if you <i>will</i> marry the
best cook in the Alleyway district . . ."
</p>
<p>They all closed their furnace doors and retreated toward the north end
of the corridor, disappearing from view as they turned the corner. Yeslin
waited until they were all gone before replacing the string, as swiftly
as he could. Then he stood up. His heart was still beating hard.
</p>
<p>The corridor he stood in was very dark. With the furnace doors closed,
the only light came from half a dozen oil lamps bracketed to the walls.
The lamps were fitfully sputtering.
</p>
<p>He tossed a coin in his mind and began walking slowly south, in the
direction of the bats. There were doors all along the eastern side of the
corridor, opposite to the furnaces, but none of the doors were marked in
any way. He tried the knob of one of the doors, but it was locked.
</p>
<p>He reached the last of the furnaces and paused, uncertain. A further
stretch of corridor lay ahead of him, but the doors on the eastern side
had ended. Was it worth travelling on and risking meeting one of the Eternal
Dungeon's notoriously skilled guards?
</p>
<p>It was at that moment that the Seeker entered the corridor from the
west.
</p>
<p>Yeslin received only a glimpse of him, for the Seeker immediately turned
right, in the direction of the southern end of the corridor, and then disappeared
through another western doorway. All that Yeslin caught was an impression
of black. Black boots, black trousers, black shirt, and, of course, the
mark of a Seeker: the black hood that hid a Seeker's entire head.
</p>
<p>Yeslin stood irresolute for a moment more. The Seeker he had seen could
not be the High Seeker; he knew that much. But tangling with torturers
of any rank seemed the ultimate in danger. Moreover, what likelihood was
there that the Seeker would give Yeslin the information he needed? These
men were trained to extract information, through horrific means; Yeslin
doubted that their training extended to giving out information to a passing
stranger.
</p>
<p>He thought this and felt his feet carry him forward. He realized afterwards
that what carried him forward was not any conscious thought, but a sound:
the very faint sound of machinery.
</p>
<p>The sound of machinery grew louder as he approached the doorway that
the Seeker had entered. Yeslin paused at the threshold, and not only because
of the danger which the Seeker represented. He was pausing in awe of what
lay beyond that doorway.
</p>
<p>It was a steam engine – his ears had already told him that – but it
was the biggest steam engine he had ever seen in his life. It was rigged
up with what Yeslin could only describe as a giant's accordion. Two accordions,
one squeezing down at the same moment that the other accordion released
itself with a whoosh. Squish and release, squish and release – the two
accordions worked in harmony with each other as the great steam engine
that ran them pushed its rod-arms backwards and forwards.
</p>
<p>Standing in front of them, with his back to the doorway, was the Seeker.
The sound of the steam engine had evidently hidden the sound of Yeslin's
footsteps, for the Seeker did not turn around as Yeslin entered the room.
The torturer had his head tilted back, in evident contemplation of the
machinery. Yeslin could imagine a Seeker being fascinated by the workings
of a rack or another instrument of torture, but a Seeker who seemed wholly
absorbed at the sight of less destructive machinery . . .
</p>
<p>Yeslin closed the door. The Seeker's back stiffened. Then the Seeker
turned. Yeslin could see nothing except his eyes, which were a deep blue.
</p>
<p>"Mr. Taylor?" Yeslin heard that his own voice was shaking.
</p>
<p>For a moment, the Seeker remained still, leaving Yeslin in an agony
of certainty that he had misidentified the man. Then the Seeker raised
his hands, pulling up the portion of his hood that hid his face.
</p>
<p>It was indeed Elsdon Taylor. He looked tired, but no more so than the
last time Yeslin had seen him. His face remained youthful.
</p>
<p>"Yeslin Bainbridge." Elsdon Taylor's voice was incredulous. "How in
the name of all that is sacred did you get in here?"
</p>
<p>The dipping of his eyes was automatic. He did manage to keep from going
down on one knee. But it had been three years since he had last met Elsdon
Taylor, so very briefly, and though they had exchanged letters since then,
he had not been able to communicate with the Seeker for the past fourteen
months. Men can change a great deal in the space of fourteen months, particularly
when they spend their nights torturing prisoners. . . .
</p>
<p>"Yeslin." There was an indefinable shift in Elsdon Taylor's voice which
caused Yeslin to look up. The Seeker was smiling now. He opened his arms.
"Sweet one."
</p>
<p>Yeslin came forward to accept the embrace of his brother.
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>o—o—o</p>
</div><p>One week before, Yeslin had stood in the office of the outer dungeon's
majordomo, striving to appear to be an ordinary commoner.
</p>
<p>"Hmm," said the majordomo, staring at a sheet of paper. "It says here
on your application that you can supply a reference from Harden Pevsner.
You served in his household?"
</p>
<p>"Yes, ma'am," he replied. He had indeed served in Mr. Pevsner's household,
though the household had not belonged to Mr. Pevsner, and Yeslin would
have cut his own throat before offering service to the man.
</p>
<p>The majordomo wrote something down. Her presence, in a position of such
high rank, had been a surprise to Yeslin – he had gathered, from passing
remarks made by his brother, that the High Seeker was less than enthusiastic
about the presence of female workers in his dungeon. But of course this
was the outer dungeon; no doubt few Seekers ventured into the area where
the dungeon's commoner laborers worked and lived.
</p>
<p>He had worried about that, in the days leading up to his application
for employment here.
</p>
<p>"Well," said the majordomo, setting aside her pen, "I have contacted
this address and have been told by his valet that Mr. Pevsner is not available
at the moment to verify former servants' credentials. He is overseas doing
business, as I understand it."
</p>
<p>Yeslin had understood that as well; hence the timing of his presence
here. Sitting motionless on the bench in front of the majordomo's desk,
he strove to look concerned, rather than relieved.
</p>
<p>"However," added the majordomo, reaching for a different piece of paper
on her desk, "given that the manufactory where you last worked has verified
that you are a hard worker, we can give you provisional employment here
for the time being. As it happens, we are short a stoker in the inner dungeon."
</p>
<p>His breath froze. He had not expected such good fortune. The majordomo
noticed his reaction and drew the wrong conclusion. Smiling grimly, she
said, "Don't worry. It's been at least a century since one of our Seekers
mistook a laborer for an escaped prisoner and broke him on the rack."
</p>
<p>It was impossible to tell whether she was joking. Yeslin gave a nervous
laugh, not at all faked.
</p>
<p>The majordomo nodded, as though he had passed some sort of test of courage.
"You'll be on the night shift. I take it this isn't work you've done in
the past?"
</p>
<p>"No, ma'am." It was a relief to be able to answer one of her questions
honestly. "I'll be glad to learn the work, however."
</p>
<p>"Hmm." She contemplated him, chin on fingers, as though he were a prisoner
being sorted to the right cell. He felt his chest grow heavy, but all that
she said was, "Why the Eternal Dungeon?"
</p>
<p>"Why did I apply for work here?" he responded, speaking slowly, though
he already had an answer prepared for that obvious question. "Knew someone
who once worked here, ma'am. He made it sound like this was a right good
place for laborers. Fair bosses, decent wages." He shrugged. "Not many
jobs out there these days."
</p>
<p>This was the truth also, and her nod showed that she was aware of the
fact. "Here," she said, pushing forward the paper. "You can read, I assume?
We require a written oath from all our workers. The oath binds you from
revealing to anyone in the lighted world what you have seen in this place.
The penalties for breaking the oath— Yes, what is it?" Her voice turned
sharp.
</p>
<p>Pausing from reading the truly grim penalties promised to oath-breakers
<i>(May
my soul dwell forever in the prison of afterdeath . . .)</i>, Yeslin looked
over his shoulder. A youth a few years younger than himself stood in the
doorway to the stairwell which lead up to the grounds of the royal palace
above the dungeon. Chewing on a wad that made his cheek bulge, the youth
had the peaked cap of a messenger lad. He held up a box wrapped in brown
paper. "Delivery for the dungeon," he said.
</p>
<p>"All right, I'll take it." The majordomo reached out her hand.
</p>
<p>"Uh-uh-uh," scolded the messenger lad, clutching the box close to his
body while handing forth a piece of paper. "'Tis from the Capital City
Bank. From the <i>president</i> of the bank. Wants the High Seeker's signature,
he does. Otherwise, no delivery." The messenger lad leaned against the
doorpost, looking smug.
</p>
<p>The majordomo darted him with a look which suggested that smug messenger
lads ended up in breaking cells. The messenger lad merely grinned. Sighing,
the majordomo rose to her feet, her hand sweeping her skirt free of the
desk as she took the paper from the messenger lad. Yeslin hastily rose
to his feet too; his father had held decided opinions concerning the proper
respect due to women. Besides, she was of the elite.
</p>
<p>"Wait here," she instructed Yeslin, and then, to the messenger lad:
"No tobacco in the dungeon." Then she swept out of the room, her skirt
rustling across the stone floor.
</p>
<p>The messenger lad spat tobacco juice on the floor in celebration of
her departure, then resumed his chewing of the tobacco wad. Yeslin glanced
down at the oath again. No civil penalties were listed, but even so . .
. <i>May I be denied all opportunity for rebirth.</i>
</p>
<p>He looked over at the messenger lad, who had a crayon out and was scribbling
graffiti on the doorpost. Yeslin felt a smile tease its way onto his face.
He caught the messenger lad's eye, gestured with his head toward the oath,
and held up the majordomo's pen.
</p>
<p>It took the messenger lad a moment to understand; then he grinned again.
"What's it worth to you?" he asked.
</p>
<p>Yeslin silently withdrew a coin from his pocket – his only remaining
coin – and offered it. The messenger lad sniffed disdainfully at the sight
of it, but he came forward and began to take it. Yeslin – long wise to
the ways of the world – held it back and offered the pen again. The messenger
lad laughed then, taking the pen from Yeslin's hand. "What's your name?"
he asked.
</p>
<p>Yeslin told him. The messenger lad had no sooner scribbled the name
onto the paper and returned the pen to the desk than the majordomo returned.
</p>
<p>"Here you are," she said, offering the delivery paper back to the lad.
"I met the High Seeker in the corridor, and though he was in a rush, he
was kind enough to sign your paper. He asked, however, that you convey
to your employer that signing delivery documents is not one of the duties
of the High Seeker, and that all future deliveries should be directed to
the care of the dungeon's Record-keeper."
</p>
<p>"Hold a tick." The messenger snatched the paper from her hand and pretended
to scrutinize it with narrowed eyes.
</p>
<p>"Hmm," said the majordomo as she caught sight of the signed oath on
her desk. "You should have waited to sign the oath in my presence, Mr.
Bainbridge. Never mind. Take this" – she scribbled a quick note and handed
it to Yeslin – "to Mr. Blumer, at the end of the corridor. He is superintendent
of the stokers. He'll explain your duties to you. —All right, my lad, let's
have that package." Her voice turned brisk with impatience.
</p>
<p>The messenger lad shot Yeslin a look. Yeslin turned and pointed toward
the doorway into the outer dungeon. "This way, ma'am?"
</p>
<p>"Yes, yes." The majordomo turned her head in the direction of the door
that Yeslin was pointing toward, momentarily distracted. Yeslin quickly
tossed the coin into the messenger lad's waiting hands. The lad promptly
pocketed it. He gave Yeslin a knowing grin, then stepped forward to deliver
the package as the majordomo turned back round.
</p>
<p>Yeslin glanced at the note in his hand as he stepped through the doorway.
Employment for two weeks, extension provisional upon a positive recommendation
from Mr. Harden Pevsner.
</p>
<p>Two weeks. He would have to hope that this would be enough time.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Now, having been forced to spend a full week gaining the confidence
of his fellow stokers before he began asking the necessary questions, he
felt time slipping away from him. He should proceed rapidly, he knew. Having
established that Elsdon Taylor welcomed his arrival, Yeslin should provide
a brief, unemotional explanation of his presence in the dungeon and proceed
with his mission.
</p><p>He knew what he should do. What he was actually doing was clinging to
Elsdon as though his older brother were a life-raft.
</p><p>"Did I scare you?" asked Elsdon, speaking softly to Yeslin, who had
buried his head upon the Seeker's shoulder. "I'm sorry; I forget sometimes
the effect that my uniform has upon people. I was just so startled and
pleased to see you again— Yeslin, are you crying?" The Seeker pulled back,
holding Yeslin at arm's length.
</p><p>Yeslin shook his head, though he could not deny the evidence of the
moisture running from his eyes. He could feel himself shaking. He should
have expected this, he knew. How could he hope to accomplish his goals
if he didn't anticipate his weaknesses?
</p><p>"Yeslin?" said Elsdon. He sounded very young and uncertain, yet at the
same time his inquiry had an underlying tone of authority. That was the
paradox of Yeslin's brother: a man shaped by brutal misuse in his childhood
years, who had somehow come to terms with that misuse, though in a manner
that Yeslin himself would not have chosen.
</p><p>Yeslin wiped the moisture from his face. "Belle died," he said, as though
this would explain everything.
</p><p>It took Elsdon only a moment to recognize the name and react with sympathy.
"Your youngest sister?"
</p><p>He nodded. Belle was his birth-sister, born of a family he had fled
from five years ago, but still . . . she had been his favorite.
</p><p>"Your parents . . ." Elsdon paused delicately.
</p><p>"The verdict was death from neglect." Yeslin's voice finally turned
as unemotional as he had planned it to be, upon this meeting. "They both
received brief prison terms. They'll be released in a year or two. But
my other sisters and brothers . . . Scattered, sent to elite households
that were willing to take them in as apprentice servants. I tried to find
out where they'd been delivered, but the court clerk wouldn't tell me.
He did say that my youngest brother, who was only a babe, was adopted by
an elite family who took a liking to him." He shrugged. "The clerk could
have been lying to me, to make me go away."
</p><p>"Oh, Yeslin." Elsdon's voice had turned soft again. "All this, on top
of our father's death. And I . . ."
</p><p>He nodded, glad that he didn't have to explain. His birth-parents imprisoned,
his birth-siblings sent away, his new father dead from a lingering illness
. . . The only family that had been left to him had been Elsdon Taylor.
And Elsdon, for a time, had seemed as inaccessible as the rest.
</p><p>"Did you manage to persuade the Codifier to change his mind?" asked
Elsdon, reaching over to turn up the light on an oil lamp bracketed to
the wall. Paradoxically, given that he would spend the rest of his life
in a dungeon, Elsdon had poor night vision.
</p><p>Yeslin shook his head. The Codifier, the dungeon official who determined
how the <i>Code of Seeking</i> should be interpreted, had decided two years
ago that the Code's clause permitting Seekers to be visited by close family
members applied only to blood relatives. "No," he said, "I took the more
direct route of entrance." He stepped back and swept his hand across his
body, indicating his uniform.
</p><p>Elsdon stared and then laughed. "Oh, Yeslin – a <i>stoker</i>? What
a step down for you!"
</p><p>His mouth quirked in a humorless manner. "Not really."
</p><p>"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to demean your commoner origins." Elsdon,
as always, was quick to apologize for offense. "But for you to work as
a stoker these days . . . Yeslin, I'm sorry you had to go to such lengths
to reach me. I did write to you, after my two months of mourning for Father
were over. I've written to you several times in the past year, actually.
Each time, I've received a note back from Manfred – you kept him as your
valet, I take it? – telling me that the master of the house would respond
to me when he had the time." There was a light query in Elsdon's voice
– nothing more than that.
</p><p>Yeslin had not forgotten Elsdon's skill at pulling out the information
he wanted, with no more than a light query. There was no need in this case,
though. He quietly gave Elsdon the information he wanted: "I wonder whether
that message came from Manfred . . . or from the master of the house."
</p><p>It took Elsdon only an instant to understand – yes, he did indeed have
the talent of a Seeker – and then his brother stepped back, as though he
had been struck. "No."
</p><p>Yeslin shrugged. His own shock at the treachery – which had been acute
at the time – had faded as the months passed, his mind occupied with the
far more urgent problem of how to survive.
</p><p>"Yeslin, no!" The Seeker shook his head, his fine, gold-touched hair
shimmering in the lamp-light. "This can't be! Father wrote to me before
his death that he'd adopted you, that he'd made you his sole heir . . ."
</p><p>"He did," Yeslin agreed. "He did what you asked him to do . . . but
in his own fashion. He had his half-brother draw up the documents, and
he had Manfred sign as witness. Oddly enough," he added, the irony thick
on his tongue, "neither Mr. Pevsner nor his new valet Manfred recalled
afterwards seeing such documents. And since Father gave the only copies
of the documents into their custody . . ."
</p><p>Elsdon smashed his hand into the steam engine.
</p><p>The Seeker had aimed carefully – not for the hard steel that would have
broken his hand, but for the flexible accordion cloth. The cloth was evidently
thick enough to stand mistreatment, for the steam engine gave no more than
a slight wheeze at this attack.
</p><p>As for Yeslin, he had taken several steps backwards. He had not forgotten
what event had preceded Elsdon's own entrance into the Eternal Dungeon.
</p><p>"Sorry," murmured Elsdon, the former murderer, cradling his hurt hand.
"I didn't mean to give way to my emotions like that. It's just . . . Yeslin,
I'll give witness for you. I didn't keep Father's letter – I regret that
now – but I'll give court witness against Uncle Harden, describing the
letter's contents. I'm permitted to do so, in important cases. With a Seeker's
witness—"
</p><p>"With a Seeker's witness, but no physical proof of the documents, it
would only take four or five years for the case to wind its way through
the courts," Yeslin said wearily. "And I'd have to spend those five years
proving to each magistrate that I'm worthy to be a member of the elite.
At the end of those five years . . . what sort of man would I be?"
</p><p>His hurt hand forgotten, Elsdon straightened, his eyes scanning Yeslin,
as though seeing him for the first time. Finally the well-born Seeker said,
"You make it sound like a tragedy, to be high in rank and wealth."
</p><p>Yeslin shrugged. "Not for you, perhaps. I know that you do your best
to help the commoners." Elsdon Taylor's best, Yeslin believed, fell far
short of what it could be, but there was no point in attacking the efforts
of the kindest torturer in the Queen's dungeon. Yeslin would save his attacks
for other members of the elite: men who made no effort to help the commoners
who labored for them.
</p><p>"I thought that you were going to use Father's wealth to help the commoners
– wasn't that your plan?" Elsdon's quiet stillness remained. Yeslin began
to feel uncomfortable. It was going to be difficult, telling his brother
enough about his goals, but not too much.
</p><p>"It was," Yeslin acknowledged. "But even before Father died and his
half-brother stole my inheritance, I'd begun to question whether that was
the right route to my goals. Listen, Elsdon," he said, feeling once again
the strangeness of addressing such an elite man by his first name. "What
you did for me – that meant everything to me. It allowed me to stay by
Father's side during the final months of his life. It allowed me to have
<i>you</i>
as my brother. I'll forever be grateful for that." He was able to infuse
his voice with genuine warmth as he spoke. He still remembered clearly
his first meeting with Elsdon Taylor, three years before, when Elsdon had
persuaded his father to adopt the street-lad that the older man had been
caring for.
</p><p>At the time, it had seemed that Yeslin's street days were over. And
as time went on, that began to make him uncomfortable.
</p><p>He struggled now to explain. "I want to assist the commoners. I want
to create our queendom's first guild of commoners, to help the laborers
of this nation fight their employers for their rights. But how can I do
that, if I'm one of the elite myself? I've known since my birth what it
means to be cold and hungry and struggling to survive. But if I spent five
years living in a posh house, waited upon by servants and receiving money
from the sweating labor of my manufactory workers . . . what would I have
in common then with the men and women I'm seeking to help? No, Elsdon,
Mr. Pevsner did me a favor when he stole our father's house and manufactory
from me. Much as I hate the discomforts of commoner life, it's the only
life I should live, if I'm to be of any use to my fellow commoners."
</p><p>He paused, out of breath. Beyond him, the steam engine puffed noisily,
its twin accordions moving up and down. The noise drowned out any sound
from the rest of the dungeon; it was as though he and Elsdon were alone,
in their own universe.
</p><p>Elsdon was smiling now – a sad little smile. "Oh, Yeslin," he said,
"I had nearly forgotten how high your honor is. I still think that, in
five years' time, you'll regret the loss of that fortune – you'll regret
the loss of the use that your guild could have made of such wealth. But
I've no doubt – none whatsoever – that you'll find your way to your goals
some day, however hard the road may be that you scrabble your way upon."
</p><p>It was difficult for him not to say, "I've reached the doorway to my
goals, and you're going to help me open the door." He wanted so much to
be honest with his brother.
</p><p>But when all was said and done, his brother was a member of the elite.
He was the Queen's agent, duty-bound to break the wills of criminals. And
though Elsdon himself did not possess the power to arrest criminals, it
was best not to reveal to him how very close Yeslin was to committing his
first crime.
</p><p>"But enough." Elsdon stepped forward and slapped him on the back, in
a brotherly manner. "This isn't the right place to talk; someone is likely
to walk in on us while I'm naked-faced." He made it sound as though his
entire body was nude. "How did you know it was me, anyway? I was fully
hooded and facing away from you when you first entered this room."
</p><p>Yeslin pointed silently. Elsdon glanced in the direction he was pointing
and laughed. "Oh, I see. Not just a Seeker. A Seeker looking at a
<i>machine</i>.
Yes, I'm afraid I still have a weakness for mechanical devices, but you
have to admit that this one is well worth staring it. We call it the Lungs,"
he clarified as Yeslin raised his eyebrows. "It draws in good air to the
dungeon, and pushes out bad air."
</p><p>Yeslin suddenly felt as though someone was standing on his throat, choking
him. It had not occurred to him that the inhabitants of the Eternal Dungeon
would need an artificial system of air circulation in order to survive.
But this was a cave, he reminded himself. Despite the artificial walls,
the Eternal Dungeon was entirely located within a vast network of caverns
beneath the Queen's palace.
</p><p>What sort of living quarters would elite torturers build for themselves
in a cave? It was an interesting question.
</p><p>"We can go back to my rooms to talk," said Elsdon, as though he sensed
Yeslin's curiosity. "We'll have privacy there."
</p><p>Yeslin cleared his throat. "Don't you . . . share your rooms?"
</p><p>He had the privilege, then, of seeing a Seeker blush. "Oh," said Elsdon.
"So you've heard."
</p><p>"Yes, though not from you." Yeslin raised his eyebrows again.
</p><p>The blush deepened. "I'm sorry, Yeslin. I would have told you before
if I could have, but some things I'm not supposed to talk about with people
from the lighted world."
</p><p>"Well, I'm here now," he pointed out. He hoped that the nonchalance
of his tone passed muster with his keen-eyed brother.
</p><p>Evidently it did; Elsdon nodded as he pulled down his face-cloth and
reached for the door-knob. "So you are! And you'll have signed your oath
of silence, so I can talk freely to you. Yes, I'm love-mate to Layle Smith
– the High Seeker, that is. Do you remember me telling you, when I visited
Father, how worried I was about a Seeker who was ill? That was when Layle
was quite ill – well, anyone in the dungeon could tell you . . ."
</p><p>They proceeded down the corridor, Elsdon chatting in a quite matter-of-fact
manner about the terrible aspects of the High Seeker's illness. Twice they
passed servants lugging mops and buckets. Elsdon didn't bother to lower
his voice, so Yeslin surmised that the High Seeker's madness – Elsdon didn't
use that word, but there was no other way to interpret his description
– was common knowledge in the Eternal Dungeon.
</p><p>Yeslin remembered the rumor he had heard, oh so long ago, that a Seeker
had gone mad. It had only been a rumor, with no proof behind it. But if
people in the lighted world had known the truth, that the Eternal Dungeon
was being run by a madman . . .
</p><p>"Layle is much better these days," Elsdon concluded. "He's been back
at work, searching prisoners, for nearly a year now."
</p><p>Yeslin winced. Fortunately, Elsdon failed to notice. He had turned to
place a key in one of the unmarked doors along the eastern side of the
corridor. "Here we are," Elsdon said as he opened the door. He gestured
Yeslin inside and began his tour.
</p><p>Yeslin was impressed with Elsdon's apartment – genuinely impressed.
</p><p>The bedroom – which Elsdon assured him was the largest bedroom possessed
by any Seeker, since it also belonged to the High Seeker – was barely the
width and breadth of three doorways. Into this space was jammed a double-sized
bed, a single night-stand with toiletry items within, and a single chest
for undergarments and one change of clothing. Nothing more. Only two lamps
and a face-mirror adorned the wall; the mirror had a dull iron frame.
</p><p>There was no water closet in the apartment. Yeslin found a chamber-pot
beneath the bed. A circular iron tub offered a place for bathing.
</p><p>The rest of the apartment was a single room, scarcely larger than the
bedroom. There was no dining area, merely a kitchen area without a stove
– the apartment held no source of heat – and a few bins with dry food in
them. A counter, such as might have been found in any workshop, was the
sole table in the place, and two high stools served as its chairs.
</p><p>The adjoining parlor was somewhat more luxuriously furnished, but here
too the furnishings seemed purely practical: a desk piled high with papers,
shelves filled with the type of books that Seekers might require in their
work (after one glance at a volume, Yeslin winced and left the books alone),
a chair for the desk, an armchair, and a padded bench – just the number
of seats needed by two Seekers hosting two guests. The tea table – which
was piled high with books and mugs and other such items – seemed like the
heights of luxury.
</p><p>"What do you think?" Elsdon asked, smiling.
</p><p>Yeslin was not yet ready to voice his full thoughts, so he said, "It's
quite a change for you."
</p><p>Elsdon's smile deepened. "I've grown used to it. Truth to tell, if I
returned to our old house, with its dozens of rooms and hundreds of pieces
of furniture, all gilded and finely carved, I wouldn't be sure what to
do with it all. . . . It's harder for the High Seeker. He finds it too
cramped."
</p><p>"He had greater riches than you, before?" Yeslin picked up a wheel that
was leaning incongruously against the wall, then hastily put it down again
as he recognized what it was: the wheel of a rack.
</p><p>Elsdon laughed. "Hardly. He dislikes being away from the open sky. As
a child, he slept on the streets."
</p><p>"Oh?"
</p><p>Yeslin's comment could not have emerged in as disinterested a fashion
as he would have liked, for Elsdon laughed again. "You're curious about
him."
</p><p>Yeslin gave a bit of a smile back. "Isn't everyone? There are so many
tales about him. Some say he's the bastard son of the queen, others that
he's a murderer . . ."
</p><p>Elsdon's smile faded. "I'll tell you the truth later. For now . . .
You didn't say what you thought of my living quarters."
</p><p>Yeslin was beginning to have the uneasy feeling that Elsdon would prove
to be a formidable . . . No, he couldn't call his own, affectionate brother
an enemy. But Elsdon would prove a barrier, there was no doubt of that.
</p><p>He looked again at the apartment. Storage bins to be filled, pitchers
awaiting water, a chamber-pot under the bed . . . He asked, "Who cleans
the chamber-pots?"
</p><p>"Why, a maid, of course," Elsdon replied easily.
</p><p>"And the tub? Is it filled by a maid?"
</p><p>Elsdon hesitated for the first time. "I think a manservant brings in
the water for that."
</p><p>He bit his tongue in time to keep from saying, "You <i>think</i>? Haven't
you ever noticed?" Instead, he asked, "What about the food? Is that delivered
by the same servants? Or by other servants?"
</p><p>"Yeslin." Elsdon's voice had grown quiet again. "What are you trying
to say?"
</p><p>"I was just wondering, sir," he said, keeping his own voice quiet, "whether
you have fewer servants now than you did as a boy."
</p><p>There was a long silence, long enough that Yeslin felt the instinct
to go down on one knee – the safest response, he had long ago learned,
when in the presence of an angry member of the elite. From outside came
the sound of the day-shift stokers shoveling coal into the furnaces that
warmed the prisoners' cells.
</p><p>Then, unexpectedly, Elsdon smiled. "I think you should meet Mr. Chapman,"
he said.
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>o—o—o</p>
</div><p>Despite his carefully laid groundwork, it took Yeslin another day to
discover the point of vulnerability among the stokers.
</p><p>The problem – the <i>ironic</i> problem – was that he had chosen to
start his mission with what turned out to be the most satisfied laborers
in the history of the Queendom of Yclau. The stokers seemed pleased with
all aspects of their work: their tasks, their equipment, and their pay.
Their nominal superintendent confined his duties to training new stokers;
most of their instructions came from the High Seeker, who would issue his
orders by quietly offering suggestions on how the stokers' work could be
done better. The "suggestions" invariably turned out to be good ones.
</p><p>Even those aspects of the work that the stokers disliked – the hours,
the closed confines of the dungeon, the food that they occasionally bought
from the dining hall – they were not inclined to blame on the Seekers.
"The Seekers, they have the same hours, same dungeon, same food as us,"
said Curt. "They have it worse than us – they're not allowed to leave the
dungeon for even a bit of fresh air." And everyone nodded.
</p><p>Finally, in desperation, Yeslin homed in on what he would never have
thought of as a grievance: the fact that the stokers loved their current
jobs so much that they didn't want to leave their employers.
</p><p>"What's this 'lectrifying anyhow?" growled Wade as he leaned over to
scoop another shovelful of coal into his portion of the corridor-long furnace.
It was the first hour of their work-night, so the stokers had shifted over
to the western furnaces, across the dungeon from where the Seekers slept.
</p><p>"You know about that, Wade," replied Jerry. "We all learned about it
in school."
</p><p>Wade mumbled something inarticulate. Yeslin, who knew that the First
District was the only part of the Queendom of Yclau that still did not
supply education to its commoners, straightened up his aching back and
said, "Electricity is like lightning. Lightning in a bottle. Works as good
as coal or gas at supplying heat and light, and makes less mess."
</p><p>"Oh, aye?" Wade sounded skeptical. "Well, 'twill make one fucking mess
to tear up all this dungeon to put in that 'lectrifying stuff."
</p><p>"Watch your language, Wade." Leo frowned as he hit a nasty bit in his
coal pile. "The High Seeker might hear you. You know how he hates cussing."
</p><p>Everyone looked over their shoulders. Any mention of the High Seeker
invariably had that effect.
</p><p>"He won't come here today," said Curt confidently . . . or perhaps with
a bit of bravado. "He's taken leave this month. I heard he's in mourning."
</p><p>Wade snorted. "Who'd he be in mourning for? He ain't got no family.
Ain't got no friends neither, far as I can see."
</p><p>"There's Elsdon Taylor—"
</p><p>"Who's alive," interjected Jerry.
</p><p>"So far." Wade flung more coal through the yawning doorway of the furnace.
Faintly behind the flames of his own portion of the furnace, Yeslin could
see the thick, frosted glass bricks that separated the furnace from the
prisoners' cells. He wondered whether the prisoners could hear this conversation,
and what they made of it.
</p><p>He set aside all temptation to question Wade about what danger the High
Seeker might pose to Elsdon; Yeslin had already heard the dungeon rumors
of what took place in the High Seeker's bedroom and had determined they
were just that, rumors. So far, Elsdon had remained discreet about the
exact nature of his entanglement with Layle Smith, but he did not show
any signs of being misused. Yeslin certainly knew what signs to look for.
</p><p>No, the High Seeker's destruction of Elsdon was likely to take a more
subtle form, if these stokers were any indication of Layle Smith's usual
methodology. Yeslin wondered what means the High Seeker had used to persuade
the stokers that working in a dungeon of torture was a privilege.
</p><p>He tried again. "The boss men did that at Miller's Rubber Stamp Manufactory.
Put in new, electrified equipment, hired men from the Electricians' Guild
to run it, and threw out all the laborers. Some of the fellows there had
worked at the manufactory forty, fifty years, but that's all the thanks
they got."
</p><p>All around him, the stokers frowned. He'd touched the heart of their
vulnerability, he judged.
</p><p>Continuing with his pre-prepared speech, he said, "They wanted to try
something like that in the Mippite manufactories too, but the Mippite laborers
fought back. Not with weapons," he added hastily, seeing Leo frown again.
"With courage and wit. First word the commoners had that the boss men were
planning to replace them with new equipment and new men, they sat down
on the job. Thousands of them, all over the Magisterial Republic of Mip.
The boss men, they were forced to rethink their plans."
</p><p>The stokers exchanged glances. Finally Jerry broke the silence. "Thousands
of them? All at once? How'd that many men decide to act together like that?"
</p><p>"Because they acted like a guild." Yeslin took out his handkerchief,
wiped his hands clean, and pulled the paper bag out of his trousers pocket.
He held up one of the cloth badges for the stokers to see. "So can we."
</p><p>The stokers slowly drifted together, staring at the badge, with its
neatly woven words: "Commoners' Guild, Chapter 1."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"What the bloody—?"
</p><p>Yeslin felt Elsdon's hand grasp his arm, holding him as tightly as an
arresting soldier might. Yeslin's heart skipped a beat, but Elsdon released
him almost immediately, reaching down to pick up the item in the outer-dungeon
corridor that Yeslin had stumbled over.
</p><p>It was a stuffed bunny rabbit. A<i> pink</i> stuffed bunny rabbit.
</p><p>"Finlay's," said Elsdon, examining it with the same care that he might
use in examining a murder weapon. "Or possibly Zenas's. He still plays
with toys, even though he's nearly fourteen now."
</p><p>Yeslin stared at Elsdon with horror. "You torture <i>children</i>?"
</p><p>Elsdon winced. "Not often; most of the underage prisoners are searched
by other Seekers. Zenas is Weldon Chapman's son. I'll introduce you, if
there's time."
</p><p>There was not time. They reached Mr. Chapman's living quarters – accessible
from both the outer dungeon and the inner dungeon – just as the older Seeker
was about to leave for his day shift. He paused a few minutes, though,
to speak with Elsdon's "kinsman, who has taken employment here as a stoker."
This was the introduction that Elsdon and Yeslin had agreed upon, not wishing
to provoke the Codifier with news that Elsdon's brother had managed to
find an alternative route into the dungeon. Every elite family had a bastard
commoner or two, usually kept well hidden.
</p><p>Mr. Chapman greeted Elsdon's commoner kinsman more civilly than Yeslin
would have expected. The reason for this became clear within seconds.
</p><p>"—say hello to the fellows for me," concluded Mr. Chapman. "I don't
think any of them worked alongside me – it's been a while – but I like
to think of them, now and then. . . . Elsdon, I'm sorry, but I must go.
I'm busier than usual—"
</p><p>"Because of Layle's absence. Yes, I know. Thank you, Weldon." The two
Seekers shook arms in farewell.
</p><p>Picking his way across the toy-strewn floor of Weldon Chapman's quarters,
Yeslin waited until they were in the empty corridor which led from the
Seekers' common room to the Lungs. Then he said softly, "Mr. Chapman lives
only a few yards from where the stokers work. Yet he can't greet them himself?"
</p><p>Elsdon was silent a minute before saying, "He doesn't talk much about
it, but I don't think his time among the stokers was happy. There was some
sort of friction . . . Perhaps it was merely because the other stokers
sensed that he was destined for a better life." He caught Yeslin's look
and laughed. "Oh, you know what I mean. I don't wish to imply that a stoker
is any less worthy than a Seeker."
</p><p>Yeslin decided that it would be wisest not to comment upon this remark.
Instead, he asked, "Does it happen often?"
</p><p>"For a commoner to become a Seeker? No, Weldon is the only one, and
only because Layle recognized the greatness of Weldon's soul, at the time
that Weldon was working as a guard."
</p><p>Yeslin thought about this as they walked down the corridor. This part
of the inner dungeon was mainly made up of janitorial closets; maids and
manservants rummaged in the closets, pulling out items in preparation for
their work during the day shift. The smell of the furnaces came closer;
the day-shift stokers were evidently already at work.
</p><p>"Are many guards . . . ?"
</p><p>Elsdon shook his head. "Mind you, it's not unusual for guards – and
even a handful of Seekers – to be mid-class. I know that Layle has been
concerned that the Seekers and guards fail to fully represent the variety
of ranks in the lighted world; he has made a deliberate effort to encourage
applications from mid-class men. As for recruiting commoners . . ." Elsdon
laid his hand on Yeslin's shoulder; his smile, hidden under his hood, was
clear in his voice as he said, "Maybe your new guild will be able to help
us with that."
</p><p>Still bonded in that manner, he and Elsdon turned the corner, their
quiet conversation momentarily paused by the loud whoosh of the Lungs.
Ahead of them, coal-smoke fogged the corridor, sucked upwards, as Elsdon
had explained the previous day, into vents that carried them back to the
Lungs. Even with the ventilation system working, it was difficult to breathe
as they passed the sweating stokers. Yeslin wondered why it was that the
stokers' workplace lay so close to the Seekers' living quarters. Was it
only so that the Seekers could benefit from the furnace-warmth in the corridor?
Or was it because the Seekers wished to keep a close ear to the conversations
of the muscular men who labored for them? Certainly Yeslin dared not do
anything but nod in a friendly fashion as they passed the day-shift stokers,
whom he did not yet know.
</p><p>They reached a crossroads in the corridor. Directly ahead lay the dungeon
healers' office – Yeslin wondered whether anyone had considered the irony
of a healer practicing his profession in a dungeon of torture – while the
corridor to the right of them led to the outer dungeon, where most of the
laborers lived and worked. To the left, though . . .
</p><p>"I'll have to leave you here," Elsdon said, releasing Yeslin from his
grip. "I need to check something in one of the rack rooms."
</p><p>Yeslin felt all the hairs on his body rise up. "I'll come with you,"
he suggested.
</p><p>Elsdon shook his head. "That's not possible. The Code only permits the
Codifier, Seekers, guards, and occasional family members to enter the prisoners'
breaking cells."
</p><p>"But you're visiting a rack room, you said." Yeslin tilted his head,
contemplating Elsdon, who had hesitated in his reply. "The Lungs in this
dungeon are impressive. I'd like to see whether the racks are equally impressive."
</p><p>As he'd guessed would happen, this appeal to Elsdon's mechanical interests
did its work. "All right," said Elsdon with a light chuckle. "Just for
a minute. If anyone notices you're there, I'll take the blame."
</p><p>They passed a set of guards, who glanced at them with only mild curiosity;
Yeslin had passed this way before, accompanying some of the stokers to
an informal week's-end prayer meeting in the dungeon's crematorium – a
ghastly place, where dozens of candles burned for executed prisoners. Now
Elsdon turned toward the entrance to the crematorium, but almost immediately
he stopped, slipping into a nearby room. Yeslin glanced automatically toward
the other end of the corridor, where guards stood posted outside cells.
Nobody was looking his way, though, so he followed Elsdon in and closed
the door.
</p><p>He wished, immediately afterwards, that he had not done so. Elsdon,
now naked-faced, was in the midst of lighting the sole lamp in the room,
but even with the lamp lit, shadows crouched like wolves in the corners,
dipping in and out of objects along the walls that Yeslin recognized as
being instruments of torture. Evidently, more than just racking was done
in this room. His gorge rose as he contemplated all that the Seekers did
here.
</p><p>"Isn't she beautiful?"
</p><p>Yeslin tore his gaze away from the objects on the wall that tore and
crushed and gouged. Elsdon was standing next to a long table, headed by
a wheel. Yeslin slowly approached it. He had to admit that, for an instrument
of torture, it had a frightening elegant look about it: polished wood,
gleaming copper, and the curlicue decoration that Yeslin associated with
the first century. "This is remarkable," he said, the most honest comment
he could offer.
</p><p>Elsdon nodded without raising his eyes. "She looks like an antique,
doesn't she? She's imported from Vovim. Layle told me that he can't stand
to work with Yclau racks – they lack soul."
</p><p>"Ah." The bed of the rack was made of metal. Yeslin scratched at a black
bit on the bed and then examined it. Dried blood. "Why do you call it a
she?"
</p><p>"Oh." Elsdon looked embarrassed for the first time. "I got into the
habit when I was racked in Vovim. The racks there are in the shape of women."
</p><p>Yeslin looked sharply at his brother. He knew that Elsdon had been held
in Vovim's royal dungeon when his diplomatic mission for the Queen went
badly awry, but the thought of Elsdon being embraced by a metal woman who
tore at his bones and sinews . . . It did not bear thinking about. No wonder
Elsdon considered Layle Smith to be a pleasant love-mate.
</p><p>Yeslin looked again at the blood. "Do many prisoners die here?"
</p><p>"Oh, no – not if we can prevent it." Elsdon laughed at his puzzled look.
"We're not here to execute prisoners, Yeslin. That's the hangman's job.
We're here to obtain confessions. Look, I'll explain how this works—"
</p><p>And he did, going underneath the rack at one point in order to show
off its workings. Watching, Yeslin began to wonder when he would be requested
to take off his clothes and serve as the rack's demonstration victim.
</p><p>Part of him, cold and calculating, was taking inner notes. The rest
of him couldn't bear what he was hearing. Finally he burst out, "Elsdon,
how can you do this? How can you seek to transform men's souls by tearing
apart their bodies?"
</p><p>Elsdon, who had been kneeling down to explain how the wheel controlled
the tightening of the manacles, looked up. For the first time he seemed
hesitant. At last he said, "It's rather complicated, Yeslin. I don't think
you'll understand until you've belonged to the dungeon a while."
</p><p>Yeslin did not bother to explain how short his visit to the dungeon
was likely to be. "I ought to know about such matters, even if I live in
the lighted world."
</p><p>Sighing as he dusted off his hands and rose to his feet, Elsdon said,
"Don't let it worry you, Yeslin. It has nothing to do with you."
</p><p>Yeslin turned, looked for something harmless to throw – there was nothing
harmless in that room – and contented himself with beating upon the wall
with his fists.
</p><p>"Stop it." Elsdon's grip was firmer than before as he pulled Yeslin
away from the wall. "You'll hurt yourself. Yeslin, what's wrong with you?"
</p><p>"Nothing to do with me. <i>Nothing to do with me.</i> Elsdon, this place
has <i>everything</i> to do with me!"
</p><p>Elsdon's brow was creased with faint puzzlement. "Why? Are you considering
applying to become a guard, the way Weldon did?"
</p><p>"Sweet—" Yeslin choked away the oath. "Elsdon, look at me. <i>Look at
me.</i> I'm a commoner. How much of this queendom is made up of commoners?"
</p><p>"I'm not sure—"
</p><p>"One-third of the people in the Queendom of Yclau are commoners. The
rest are mid-class or elite. Now, how many of the prisoners in this queendom
are commoners?"
</p><p>Elsdon was wise enough to keep quiet this time.
</p><p>Yeslin cried, "Ninety-five percent! People say that it's because commoners
are all thieves and murderers, but the true reason is that mid-class men
and elite men are rarely arrested. They have the money to bribe soldiers,
they have the position of power to prevent an arrest. Commoners don't.
We're the ones who end up in places like this."
</p><p>"Yes, I know."
</p><p>Elsdon said nothing more, but after a moment, Yeslin felt his cheeks
flush. "I'm sorry. I'd forgotten that you were a prisoner here. Were you
racked?"
</p><p>"No," said Elsdon steadily. "I was barely tortured at all. And I'm not
going to pretend I understand the fear that the typical commoner prisoner
undergoes, finding himself powerless in the hands of the elite. But Yeslin
. . . are you trying to tell me that you've committed a crime?"
</p><p>"No." Not quite yet. "It doesn't matter whether I do. I'm founding a
guild for commoners. Don't you understand what that means? I'm going to
be encouraging commoners to fight against the elite – to fight even against
the mid-class. How long do you think it will be before the elite think
up some excuse to arrest me?"
</p><p>Elsdon remained silent for some time. Then he said softly, "The Queen
is a wise and discerning woman. I've met her."
</p><p>"So perhaps I won't end up here, in the Eternal Dungeon. But if you're
wrong . . . if I end up in this place . . . are you prepared to hold to
the belief that I'll be transformed by torture, if you're the one torturing
me?"
</p><p>His throat felt raw; his soul felt scathed. Elsdon's face was not quite
blank, but it somehow had leached away all revealing emotion. The Seeker
looked very much like he had on the day when he searched Harden Pevsner
in an attempt to discover how his uncle was treating Yeslin.
</p><p>Finally Elsdon said, "If you don't like being in this rack room, we
can leave."
</p><p>Yeslin let out his breath slowly, reminding himself that he was attacking
the wrong man. Elsdon was not to blame for how this dungeon was run. This
room had been decorated by a man who had decided that prisoners should
be tortured on beautiful racks.
</p><p>"No," Yeslin said. "I want to understand. Can you tell me what happens
when the prisoners reach the highest level of racking?"
</p><p>Elsdon did not look eager to continue that part of the conversation,
but with a little prodding, he supplied the information. And as he did
so, the balladeer within Yeslin coolly resumed his notes, proceeding to
rack the prisoner inside Yeslin's mind.
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>o—o—o</p>
</div><p>"If we tell the High Seeker we don't want to do things the way he wants
things done, he'll tie us to one of his racks and stretch us till we're
a mile long."
</p><p>Everyone nodded in agreement to what Wade said. Yeslin sat quietly on
his upturned meal pail in the minutes after the stokers finished their
midnight meals; they'd all agreed that such delicate conversations should
take place in the outer dungeon, where some of the senior stokers lived,
rather than in the inner dungeon, where the Seekers lived and worked.
</p><p>He waited to see whether anyone else would speak, then said reasonably,
"Well, we don't have to approach the High Seeker, do we? He's in mourning
in a room below the crematorium this month. Who's in charge while he's
gone? The Codifier?"
</p><p>This suggestion brought about a collective groan. "Just slit my throat,"
suggested Jerry, fingering his guild badge, which all the night-shift stokers
wore now. "Sooner that, than face the dragon in his lair."
</p><p>"Ah." Yeslin set aside that idea. He supposed he should have guessed
that the Codifier was fierce, from the manner in which the man had reacted
to Elsdon Taylor's plea three years before that his adopted brother be
permitted to visit the dungeon. "Well, then, who else could we approach?
Who is senior enough to help determine policy in the dungeon, but isn't
likely to eat us for dinner?" He took a bite of his sandwich. He had made
it himself; as a bachelor, he had learned long ago to take on any needed
task at home.
</p><p>There was a short spell of silence before Curt said hesitantly, "Mr.
Chapman."
</p><p>"Weldon Chapman, of course!" Leo clapped his hand upon his thigh. "He's
day supervisor of the Eternal Dungeon; he takes over the High Seeker's
duties when Layle Smith is away. He's boss man to us this month."
</p><p>"And he was a stoker like us, once," added Jerry eagerly. "He'll understand
why we want to keep our jobs here."
</p><p>"Mr. Chapman, then." Yeslin felt a thrill in his chest; they were coming
closer now to his first victory. "Here's how we'll do it. . . ."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The ballad was going badly.
</p><p>Yeslin had envisioned clearly what he intended to create. The classic
ballad structure was four stanzas, followed by a fifth stanza, called the
"strangeness," which twisted the ballad into a surprise ending.
</p><p>He wanted to create a new type of ballad, in which the strangeness was
doubled by adding a sixth verse. The listeners would be surprised . . .
and then they would be surprised a second time.
</p><p>The trouble was that there was no surprise yet in his ballad.
</p><p>He had chosen a famous song for his experiment: "The Ballad of the Dying
Prisoner." It was famous because there were so many versions of it: every
great balladeer had created a variation upon it. To create a new and exciting
variant on this ballad was practically a prerequisite for demonstrating
one's talents as a balladeer.
</p><p>The ballad was usually set in an unnamed prison, but Yeslin had chosen
to spice it by placing it in a named prison: The Eternal Dungeon. His hero,
of course, was a commoner prisoner, and the villain was that notorious
torturer, the High Seeker. The ballad mocked the High Seeker's pitiful
efforts to break the will of the commoner by means of torture. In the end,
the prisoner died, but not before having a good laugh at the High Seeker's
expense.
</p><p>The ballad was too straightforward. That was its problem. Everything
else about it was right: the contrast between good and evil, the stirring
depiction of the strength of commoners against the oppressive elite, and
above all, the details he now possessed of how the Eternal Dungeon's prisoners
were torn apart on the rack, both physically and mentally.
</p><p>He hesitated, pen in hand, and then, with great reluctance, he added
a new character: a young Seeker, naive and well-meaning, who was corrupted
by the High Seeker into believing that torture was the proper means by
which to convince prisoners that they have done wrong.
</p><p>He wrote another version of the ballad and then covered his face with
his hands. He could feel the solidity beneath his elbows of the desk in
the High Seeker's living quarters. How, Yeslin wondered, would the High
Seeker's love-mate react when he learned that he was now a villain in a
ballad?
</p><p>Finally, Yeslin pushed himself away from the desk and rose from the
wooden chair. Through the wall, faintly, he could hear the chatting of
the day-shift stokers as they worked. He supposed that he ought to approach
them now and recruit them into his guild. He had many hours in which to
do so; the day shift had only just begun. Or he could return to the boarding
house where he roomed, in order to receive some much-needed sleep. Elsdon,
learning that Yeslin was trying to write ballads in a crowded and noisy
dormitory for young men, had promptly offered him use of the desk that
the High Seeker and his love-mate shared, along with a key to lock up after
he was finished. The High Seeker's own key, Yeslin gathered. He wondered
what Layle Smith would say about that, once he returned from mourning.
The least Yeslin could do was not press matters by falling asleep on the
High Seeker's bed.
</p><p>He slumped down in the parlor's armchair and stared up at the ceiling.
Would Elsdon ever forgive Yeslin for what he was about to do? Despite his
choice of career, Elsdon retained a great deal of honor – could he understand
that Yeslin's own honor drove him to oppose what was done to prisoners
in the Eternal Dungeon? Would the introduction of that new character be
the wedge that drove apart the brothers? It was like finding himself pulled
resisting into a nightmarish ballad.
</p><p>He continued staring at the ceiling, watching it grow dark. Eventually
he realized he was asleep, and awoke.
</p><p>It was then that he saw Elsdon, sitting in the desk chair, holding the
ballad and waiting for Yeslin to awake.
</p><p>Yeslin moved slowly, rubbing his stiff neck as he straightened in the
chair. He could still hear the day-shift stokers talking outside. He hadn't
overslept, then.
</p><p>"You're home early," Yeslin commented, unable to take his eyes off the
ballad in Elsdon's hands.
</p><p>"I finished early with my current prisoner. Ordinarily, I would have
done documentwork until I was assigned a new prisoner, but Weldon Chapman
informed me that there was some trouble brewing amidst the stokers. He
asked me whether I knew anything about it." Naked-faced, Elsdon gave a
grimace of a smile. "He was kind enough not to say, 'We had no problems
with the stokers until your kinsman arrived.' But he told me I could take
the rest of the night off." Elsdon's hand tightened on the ballad. "Yeslin,
how could you?"
</p><p>Toeing his way gently upon this briar-strewn path, Yeslin said, "You
knew that I planned to recruit workers to my guild."
</p><p>"I wasn't referring to that – though you might have had the mercy to
let me know that you'd already started your recruiting. I was referring
to <i>this</i>." Elsdon held up the ballad. "Yeslin, I told you about the
procedures in the rack room in confidence! How could you betray my trust
in you? More importantly, how could you plot to break your oath of silence?"
</p><p>Yeslin sighed. "I took no oath."
</p><p>Elsdon waited. He was mighty good at waiting for prisoners to confess
their crimes, Yeslin recalled.
</p><p>So Yeslin explained, very briefly, what had happened in the majordomo's
room. By the time he finished, Elsdon's expression had turned wry.
</p><p>"Careless of Mistress Moore," he commented. "There's a reason why we
require witnessed oaths. Very well – I'm sorry I unjustly accused you of
oath-breaking. But the rest of this . . ." He looked down at the ballad.
"Yeslin, is that really how you see us? As witless or black at heart? And
even if you do, is a tale this simple likely to win you any listeners?"
</p><p>He was taken aback. The last thing he had expected from Elsdon at this
juncture was literary criticism.
</p><p>Elsdon saw his surprise and gave a small smile. "I know Layle. He was
born in Vovim, you see – the land of the artists. And so I know that what
would bother him most about this ballad isn't that it reveals the secrets
of the Eternal Dungeon. What would bother him most is that it's false."
</p><p>Yeslin frowned. He made an instinctive move to take hold of the ballad
again, in order to reread it; Elsdon's fingers tightened on the ballad,
so Yeslin let his hand fall. Instead he said, "You were the one who supplied
the details of how prisoners are searched."
</p><p>"Some prisoners, yes. If you think we place most prisoners here on the
rack . . . It doesn't matter. The falseness lies in your portrayal of the
characters. Why, your hero doesn't have a single blemish! No man or woman
I've met in my life, no matter how innocent, has been that pure. Your ballad
is as much a caricature of commoners as it is of Seekers."
</p><p>Elsdon Taylor – Yeslin reflected, not for the first time – was very
good at his work. Yeslin steeled himself to fight back. "Perhaps. I'll
consider whether the ballad should be rewritten. But the fact remains that
the lighted world needs to know what goes on in this dungeon. It needs
to know the methods you use to break prisoners."
</p><p>"You can't reveal that, Yeslin," Elsdon said steadily, sitting quietly
on the wooden chair. "You can't reveal facts that we need kept secret in
order to do our jobs." He pointed at the ballad. "Here, in the fourth stanza,
you reveal that the racks aren't designed to kill prisoners. Don't you
realize that most of the prisoners we break on the rack are broken out
of simple fear that they will die, horribly maimed, if they don't confess?
If you reveal that the rack is merely designed to give pain and fear, not
to kill, then we will have less chance of obtaining confessions—"
</p><p>"Seeker," said Yeslin, his voice turning cold, "that is your problem,
not mine. I'm not going to write a ballad that allows you to torture your
prisoners well. I don't believe that torture is ever right. You should
understand why . . . from what Father did to you."
</p><p>There was a gap in the conversation. Outside, the cheerful stokers were
laughing at some shared joke. Faintly beyond them, Yeslin could hear a
prisoner screaming.
</p><p>Elsdon was quiet again when he replied. "What Father did to me, all
those years ago, isn't the same as what I do to my prisoners. I know that's
hard for you to understand, because you've never witnessed the transformation
of a prisoner."
</p><p>"Nay?" He tilted his head, allowing his voice to fall back into dialect.
"Well, it may be that one day you'll have the chance to practice your 'transformation'
on me, in the rack room. But not today, mate. If you'll give me my ballad,
I'll be on my way."
</p><p>"No," said Elsdon softly. "You won't be. I can't let you go."
</p><p>He felt a chill trickle across his skin then. It took him a moment before
he could say, "I thought you told me that you don't possess the power to
make arrests."
</p><p>"I told you the truth. Yeslin, please listen to me." Elsdon leaned forward,
earnestness written across his face. "You're in danger of falling into
the same error our father did: of seeing evil where none exists. Why do
you think so many abuses have occurred in prisons? Because the prison workers
convinced themselves beforehand that the men and women they questioned
were guilty." Elsdon leaned back in his chair, pointing with his free hand
to the ballad. "Whatever you may think, balladeer, I'm not your enemy.
Neither is the High Seeker. But if you think we are, can I at least convince
you to depict us as something more than caricatures?"
</p><p>He looked down at the ballad, uneasiness spreading inside him. "What
did you have in mind?"
</p><p>"I'm not sure. . . ." Elsdon frowned, his face screwed up in concentration,
looking so much like his father at that moment that Yeslin felt his breath
taken away.
</p><p>He could leave, he knew. He could reconstruct the ballad outside the
dungeon, send word to the stokers of what had happened to him. That would
be wisest, rather than allow Elsdon time to hand him over to the High Seeker.
Layle Smith, Yeslin was quite sure, would have no qualms about strapping
Yeslin to a rack, regardless of what powers of arrest the High Seeker did
or did not possess.
</p><p>But Yeslin knew how much he owed to Elsdon. Not only for the adoption,
but for what might have come before that.
</p><p>It was Elsdon, not Yeslin, who had endured years of misuse at Auburn
Taylor's hands. It was Elsdon whose shocking murder and imprisonment had
convinced his father to try a different type of upbringing with the street-lad
that he had brought home soon afterwards. If it had not been for Elsdon,
and the suffering he had undergone, Yeslin might have endured as much pain
in the hands of his new father as he had endured at the hands of his birth-parents.
</p><p>He owed it to Elsdon to listen. So he waited tensely, like a soldier
standing under a truce flag, awaiting terms of peace from an opposing enemy.
</p><p>"I'll have to ask the Codifier for permission," murmured Elsdon.
</p><p>"Sorry?" said Yeslin, not at all reassured by these words.
</p><p>Elsdon shook himself, as though awakening from sleep. "I didn't mean
to mumble. It's just . . . Yeslin, what if I gave you another ballad? A
true ballad, about a real prisoner and about the real Seeker who searched
him?"
</p><p>Yeslin felt his heart plummet. He had hoped for better than this from
Elsdon. "A prisoner who was freed by the Seekers, you mean?"
</p><p>"No," said Elsdon softly, and for the first time pain laced his voice.
"No, he died. I wish I could have helped him more than I did. In the end,
it was he who helped me."
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>o—o—o</p>
</div><p>"It didn't work."
</p><p>Wade, who had drawn the short straw to be the guild member who approached
Mr. Chapman with the guild's demands, stood frowning in their agreed meeting-spot:
the little cubby-hole in the outer dungeon where the stokers ate their
meals. The other stokers exchanged looks. Finally Leo voiced what they
all were thinking: "You sure you done it right, man? Did you say it the
way we all agreed?"
</p><p>"You think I'm a fool?" flung back Wade. Wisely not awaiting an answer,
he added, "I told him all about the strike in Mip: how the commoners sat
down on the job, thousands of them, and the power company couldn't produce
no power, and the new men wasn't trained yet, and the new equipment wasn't
there yet, and the power company was losing money hand over fist each hour
that the commoners struck, so the company had no choice but to make contracts
with the guild members that let them keep their jobs." Wade wiped his hand
across his brow. "Master Chapman, he just stood there with that mild little
smile of his. Then he said, 'How many Mippite commoners did you say made
these demands?'
</p><p>"'Thousands!' I told him.
</p><p>"'Thousands,' he repeated. 'I suppose there must be thousands of stokers
in Yclau.'
</p><p>"Well, I didn't rightly know what he was getting at, but I said, 'Yeah,
there must be.'
</p><p>"And he just tilted his head, like I was a prisoner he was breaking
on the rack, and he said, 'How many of these thousands of stokers are members
of your new guild?'"
</p><p>Wade paused. This time it was Jerry who broke the silence; he stood
up and threw his pail across the room. It landed against the wall with
a crash. The other stokers had begun to curse.
</p><p>Curt looked from one man to another. "I don't see."
</p><p>"Take your blinders off, lad," said Leo gruffly. "Even Wade can add
it up. Thousands of stokers in Yclau . . . and only a dozen of us promising
to sit down on the job if we don't get our way. The Seekers will bring
in outside stokers to take over our jobs."
</p><p>"Fuck, they don't even have to do that." Wade sat down on his pail and
ran a weary hand through his hair. "Master Chapman, he said he'd split
up the day-shift stokers, have half of them take over our jobs for the
time being. Guess he means he'd make them work twice as hard, then fire
them all when this 'lectrifying comes round."
</p><p>"And him a stoker," said Curt bitterly.
</p><p>"He's not a stoker now," said Yeslin. "He has become one of the elite."
</p><p>It was a mistake to draw attention to himself at that point, he reflected
afterwards. In the next moment, every glare in the cubby-hole was directed
at him.
</p><p>"Aye?" growled Leo. "And did you anticipate this happening, Master Yeslin?"
</p><p>Being called "master" stung; it was the old-fashioned pronunciation
for the word that once meant "slave-master."
</p><p>He straightened up his back but did not rise to his feet from where
he sat on his own stool. If he needed to be standing to keep control over
these men, then he didn't have the qualities needed to be a guild leader.
</p><p>"It's called strike-breaking," he explained to the fist-furled men frowning
down at him. "I knew that it could happen, yes. It was a possibility. We'll
have to take steps to stop the strike-breakers, so that our strike will
be successful—"
</p><p>"No!"
</p><p>Wade's sharp word caused everyone to swing round to look at the First
District stoker. He too was remaining sitting on his pail, not bothering
to stand.
</p><p>"Nay?" said Jerry. "What's the matter, Wade, you got a queasy stomach?
Or maybe you don't want to fight against your masters?"
</p><p>"First District men never do," said Leo dismissively and turned his
back on Wade, returning his wrath to Yeslin. "You got a better plan, you'd
best cough it up, lad, 'cause now's the time—"
</p><p>"I said, No." Wade's voice was quieter this time, yet somehow firmer.
It drew all eyes to his direction. Yeslin found himself rising to his feet
to see the First District stoker better.
</p><p>Wade waited until everyone was looking at him, then said simply, "Ain't
none of you going to speak up for the prisoners?"
</p><p>A short, painful silence followed, which everyone else seemed to interpret
better than Yeslin did. There were hunched shoulders, looks of guilt exchanged.
Finally Jerry said, in a gruff voice, "You agreed to the strike too."
</p><p>"Then I was a fool!" shot back Wade. "We sit down on the job, and who's
going to suffer? Not the Seekers – they're used to sleeping without heat
in their cells, and they got their oil-lamps for light. So who's going
to suffer?" He looked around at the other stokers.
</p><p>It was left to Yeslin to slowly reach the conclusion that the other
men had already reached. "The prisoners," he said in a small voice.
</p><p>"Yeah, boy, the prisoners." Wade didn't even bother to look in the direction
of the outsider troublemaker who had taken so long to realize this; he
was reserving his frowns for the others. "We all knew that. So why were
we so all-fired eager to keep our jobs? 'Cause we don't care what happens
to those commoners in the cells? We don't care if they sit there shivering
in the dark?"
</p><p>"Mr. Chapman will have the day-stokers care for them—" started Curt.
</p><p>"We know that <i>now</i>!" shouted Wade. "We didn't know that then.
We didn't know that when we went to Master Chapman, demanding our <i>rights</i>.
Well, here's what I think of our <i>rights</i>. Hand me a light, Jer."
Jerry silently pulled out his tobacco box, which he kept pocketed during
his visits to the Eternal Dungeon, and waited until Wade had used his penknife
to snap the threads holding his guild badge to his shirt. Then Jerry handed
him the match, and they all watched as Wade lit his guild badge, waited
until it was well burnt, then let it fall to the floor, where he ground
it underfoot.
</p><p>"<i>That's</i> what I think of your guild and its lighted-world notions
of commoners' rights," Wade told Yeslin. "You don't care 'bout the commoners.
You only care 'bout your fucking guild. Well, I don't know about you boys,"
he said, addressing the remaining stokers, "but me, I'm willing to suffer
for the sake of the prisoners." He picked up his shovel and stalked out
of the room.
</p><p>There was a small silence as Yeslin stared at where he had been, the
final words of Wade's speech – so very different from the way the man usually
spoke – still ringing in his ears. Finally Yeslin heard himself say, "Where
did <i>that</i> come from?"
</p><p>Leo shot him a look and snorted. Jerry, more kindly, laid a hand on
Yeslin's shoulder. "You wouldn't know," he said. "You haven't been here
long enough, aye?"
</p><p>"I'm ready to get back to work," Curt declared. "Anyone coming with
me?"
</p><p>There were general nods of agreement as the men picked up their shovels
and stowed away their pails. Within a couple of minutes, they were all
gone, leaving Yeslin staring at the empty room.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They worked out the ballad, line by painful line, Yeslin composing the
first draft, Elsdon striking out lines that revealed too much. At last,
with thinly disguised exasperation, Elsdon showed Yeslin the <i>Code of
Seeking</i> – not the public edition, which Yeslin had only glanced at
so far, but the Seekers' edition, which contained the Seekers' secrets
for how to break a prisoner.
</p><p>"Those passages are off-limits," Elsdon said flatly. Then he went away,
only to return a short while later to report that the Codifier had ruled
that Seekers could provide information to balladeers who wished to memorialize
dead prisoners, provided that no dungeon secrets were revealed in the process.
</p><p>Yeslin read the Seekers' edition of the <i>Code of Seeking</i> as he
might have read a ballad telling of a great scandal. The secret passages
were an appalling companion to the high, idealistic passages of the public
portion of the Code. They described, with dark bluntness, how to create
excruciating, mind-breaking pain without killing a prisoner. They described
the signs of imminent death. They described how much blood a man might
lose while still remaining conscious enough to offer his confession.
</p><p>Yeslin wondered how Elsdon had managed to reconcile those passages with
his conscience. Had he used the same technique his abusive father had used,
of telling himself that pain was in the best interests of the prisoner?
</p><p>Yeslin didn't ask, for he was caught in wonder at seeing his own ballad
reshape into something new and unexpected.
</p><p>In place of the angry, confrontational, battle-stance ballad he had
originally written, with the Seekers as hardened enemies of the commoners,
came a different tale: the sad story of a prisoner dying for the sake of
a well-meaning Seeker who, to the end, remained oblivious to what he had
done.
</p><p>Yeslin saw more in the tale than Elsdon evidently did as his brother
recounted his memory of the episode. Yeslin recognized how Elsdon's prisoner
had been puzzled and frustrated by Elsdon's insistence on placing the Code
above all considerations of human decency. Yeslin realized also how the
prisoner's respect for Elsdon had risen as the prisoner understood that
his Seeker was prepared to apply this appalling principle even to his own
life – that he was ready to let his own beloved mate die, rather than break
the Code. Indeed, the Seeker's love-mate was prepared to sacrifice himself
for the same reason.
</p><p>"I don't understand why you've included so many lines about me," Elsdon
said, reading over Yeslin's shoulder. "The High Seeker is the important
figure in this tale. My prisoner gave his confession so that I would be
freed to care for the High Seeker when he was ill."
</p><p>"People like a love story," was Yeslin's only response. He was not surprised
to witness Elsdon's humility – Elsdon's inability to realize that his own
greatness had played a role in the prisoner's decision. Yeslin used all
his skill to portray that greatness in his ballad – to change the Seekers
of his ballad from cardboard figures in a puppet show into great men, though
highly flawed, striving for transformation and falling well short of their
goal, because of their blindness to what they did when they tied men to
racks.
</p><p>In a word, he had learned to write tragedy. And tragedy, he was discovering
as he built up a portrait of Layle Smith's greatness, was a far more satisfying
form of balladry than petty mockery.
</p><p>He had held no hope before now that any of the elite would listen to
his ballads and learn from them. Now, watching Elsdon read the ballad with
absorbed interest, Yeslin began to conceive of a new path in life – a path
that might delay his arrest until he had accomplished at least a portion
of what he needed to do.
</p><p>"This is good," said Elsdon, fingering the paper. "You've done a really
fine job of capturing what the High Seeker is like – that mixture of terrifying
darkness and boundless generosity. And my prisoner . . . somehow you've
managed to capture Mr. Little's personality too, even though you never
met him either. I still don't understand why you bothered to include more
than a line or two about me, but Yeslin . . . this is very good. I'm no
judge of ballads, but I think people will sing this, and will pass on the
song."
</p><p>"You're pleased?" He stole a look at Elsdon, hooded as always, though
with his face-cloth up in the privacy of his own living quarters.
</p><p>Elsdon nodded, not looking up from the words Yeslin had written. "Shortly
before he died, Mr. Little told me that he was sure he would be forgotten
after he died – that only elite men like me appeared in history books.
But this . . ." He waved his hand toward the page.
</p><p>"Some of the ballads are older than the oldest books," Yeslin said.
"You can tell that, by listening to the words."
</p><p>He looked more closely at his brother. It had taken them three days
to create the ballad. Yeslin, alternating between ballad-writing and stoking,
had received little sleep during that period. Elsdon, alternating between
ballad-writing and questioning a new prisoner, had received even less.
</p><p>Elsdon looked haggard now; the skin below his eyes was black, and the
rest of his face was grey with exhaustion. Gazing at his brother, Yeslin
found himself wondering whether Elsdon's fatigue came from more than lack
of sleep.
</p><p>"Elsdon," he said slowly, "I have a question. You criticized my earlier
ballad because it revealed secrets about the Eternal Dungeon that you felt
needed to be kept, and you criticized it because it caricatured the Seekers
and commoners . . . but you didn't criticize it for attacking the idea
that torture should be a means of questioning men who are accused of a
crime."
</p><p>Elsdon did not raise his eyes; his gaze seemed attached to Yeslin's
latest ballad.
</p><p>Yeslin carefully extracted the ballad from Elsdon's hand, forcing the
Seeker to look up. "Brother," said Yeslin, "are you a troublemaker too?"
</p><p>He expected Elsdon to smile, but the Seeker merely cocked his head,
considering the question. Finally Elsdon said, "I don't know. I've never
considered myself as such. But ever since you arrived, asking your questions
and singing your songs . . . The trouble with ballads," he added in a frustrated
voice, "is that they make you <i>think</i>."
</p><p>Yeslin laughed then, and after a moment, Elsdon's mouth relented into
a quirk of a smile. "Here," said the Seeker, pulling some papers from his
trousers pocket and handing them to Yeslin. "These are for you."
</p><p>He looked at them. The first was a note indicating that his employment
at the Eternal Dungeon would not be renewed, since Mr. Harden Pevsner,
newly returned from overseas, had declined to offer Yeslin Bainbridge a
positive recommendation. The other stated that, since there appeared to
be an error in the documentwork of his oath of silence, he would be required
to renew his oath before leaving, in the presence of a witness.
</p><p>Yeslin frowned at the latter document. "You told the majordomo what
I'd done?" He could not prevent himself from sounding accusing. After all
the trouble he had gone to in order to keep the dungeon's secrets . . .
</p><p>Elsdon appeared reluctant to answer. Yeslin made a growling noise in
his throat. Finally, with a sigh, Elsdon pulled a third document out of
his pocket.
</p><p>Yeslin glanced at it and felt his throat close in. It was an order for
his arrest.
</p><p>Elsdon silently took the order back and tore it to pieces. After a moment's
thought, Yeslin supplied him with a match. They placed the paper in the
iron tub and lit it.
</p><p>The burning gave Yeslin time to think. "You stopped her from passing
on the order?"
</p><p>"The messenger lad bragged about what he had done when he made his next
delivery to Mistress Moore," said Elsdon, his gaze focussed on the tiny
flame within the sink. "We don't arrest for many offenses in the Eternal
Dungeon, but the Codifier takes very seriously any assistance in the forgery
of signatures in signed oaths."
</p><p>"Oh, Elsdon." Yeslin could think of nothing to do except embrace the
Seeker in loving gratitude. And in the end, he realized that this gesture
summarized all that lay between himself and his brother.
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>o—o—o</p>
</div><p>"Sorry you're going," said Leo gruffly as he shook Yeslin's arm. "You're
a good man. Meant well. Just hadn't been here long enough to understand
our ways."
</p><p>"Aye," agreed Jerry. "Our fault, being fools enough to follow your advice,
when you hadn't been here long enough to understand how we do things here.
Not your fault."
</p><p>Yeslin managed to keep a smile plastered on his face. "I think I understand
a little more now." He held up a copy of the <i>Code of Seeking</i> – the
public version – that Elsdon was letting him keep. After he had left Elsdon
at noon, to permit his brother a few hours of sleep, Yeslin had not returned
to the lighted world, where his own bed lay. Instead, he had spent the
afternoon in the stokers' cubby-hole, reading the book over and over, especially
the first words of the Code: "A Seeker must be willing to suffer for the
prisoners."
</p><p>Elite words, written for elite men. Yet somehow the words – and the
sentiments behind them – had buried themselves in the hearts of the laborers
who helped run this dungeon of torture. And as he read further, Yeslin
began to see how Layle Smith – the High Seeker who had spent his childhood
living on the streets – had taken what he learned there and had given his
knowledge back as a gift to the commoner prisoners.
</p><p>Now, feeling bitter regret that he would not have the opportunity to
meet Elsdon's complexly-motivated love-mate, Yeslin shook yet another friendly
arm in farewell, saying, "You're right: I would have had to be here a while
to understand. But you men, you stokers who have worked in this dungeon
for years . . ." He hesitated, wondering how to voice his thoughts.
</p><p>There was a cough. Everyone in the cubby-hole looked round to where
Wade stood, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched.
</p><p>"Where you been, man?" demanded Leo. "We haven't seen so much as your
soul since yesterday! Yeslin here, he did your evening's work for you."
Leo pointed his thumb.
</p><p>Wade shrugged. "I been with Master Chapman."
</p><p>Yeslin felt his heart beat hard in his throat. The other stokers, slower
to understand, shrugged. Leo said, "That doesn't excuse you from letting
other men do your work—"
</p><p>"He's keeping us on."
</p><p>Leo paused. "What'd you say?"
</p><p>Wade grinned, placing a piece of straw between his teeth. "He's keeping
us on. All of us. Whether this dungeon gets 'lectrified or not, he says
we can keep our jobs here."
</p><p>There was a stunned silence; nobody seemed to know what to say. Finally
Curt voiced the general sentiment: "You been tippling at the healer's emergency
supply of rum, Wade?"
</p><p>Wade chuckled. "Feels like I have, yeah." He stepped into the room,
closing the door behind him. "See, I been thinking all day, 'stead of sleeping.
Shouldn't be like 'on this hand' and 'on this other hand.' Shouldn't be
a choice between us staying and the prisoners suffering. So I went to Master
Chapman tonight, and I said to him, 'When you get rid of the stokers, I
want to stay on as a janitor.'"
</p><p>Leo frowned. "Janitor's job doesn't pay much."
</p><p>"That's what Master Chapman said." Wade nodded. "He asked me whether
money didn't matter to me. I said, 'Sure, it matters. I'm saving up for
my marriage. My girl, she's going to be right tetched to hear it's going
to take me a year more to save 'fore we can marry. But that don't matter,'
I told him. 'I'm willing to suffer for the prisoners.'"
</p><p>Yeslin cleared his throat, though he could still feel his heart beating
hard in it. "And what did he say to that?"
</p><p>"Well, that's the strange thing," said Wade, hunching his shoulders
again. "He didn't say nothing at first. Just looked at me, till I was wondering
if I'd done something wrong, and he was going to take me off to one of
those breaking cells. Then he asked me whether I was the only one thought
that way. Among the stokers, he meant. And I said, 'Bloody blades, no!
All the fellows think that. We all decided it would be wrong to strike,
'cause we didn't want the prisoners hurting.' Didn't tell him 'bout you,"
he added to Yeslin. "Didn't want to get you in trouble."
</p><p>Several of the stokers turned aside to hide their smiles. Jerry made
an ill-kept attempt to smother a snicker. Yeslin, feeling his cheeks burn,
gave a sheepish smile. "Thank you," he said. "But what did Mr. Chapman
say after that?"
</p><p>"Oh!" said Wade. "That was when it got right strange. He apologized!
Said he hadn't realized before that we cared so much 'bout the prisoners.
Said, when he was a stoker, he was the only one who cared – that the other
stokers mocked him for caring 'bout the prisoners, and so did the other
guards, when he 'came a guard." Wade shrugged. "I said, 'That was 'fore
Layle Smith came 'long, wasn't it?' And he just sort of looked at me, and
finally he said, 'Mr. Smith was still junior-ranked then. He couldn't do
much to change dungeon policy. But he gave me a helping hand when I needed
it, because he saw how much I cared for the prisoners. As for myself, I'm
very pleased to have the opportunity to do the same for you and your mates.'
And that's when he shook my arm and told me he'd make sure we all kept
our jobs, one way or 'nother."
</p><p>This time the silence was broken, not by Leo or by Jerry or by any of
the other long-time stokers, but by Yeslin, shouting and jumping and pumping
his fists in the air.
</p><p>"Don't know what you're getting so excited about," said Leo, staring
at Yeslin as though he were the one who'd been tippling at the bottle.
"We did things all different than what you'd planned."
</p><p>"But that's just it," said Yeslin, getting his breath back. The other
stokers were beginning to slap each other on their backs, finally grasping
that their future employment was ensured, and without the prisoners paying
the price for that employment. "You found the right way to help each other,
and to help other commoners. You found <i>your</i> way. That's what I wanted
all along, for you to start thinking about how to stand up for your rights,
in the way that suited you best. I needed you fellows to be able to take
over the guild chapter, once I was gone. —Here," he added, struggling with
his penknife to tear off his badge, which said, "Commoners' Guild, Chapter
1: Leader." "I was going to give this to you, Leo, when I left, but I guess
you won't mind if it goes to someone else instead." He offered the badge
to Wade.
</p><p>Wade looked at the badge uncertainly, then at the others. There were
slow nods from the other men – nods of thought and assent. Finally Wade's
expression cleared, and he picked up the badge. "Yeah, boy," he said. "Maybe
we'll teach you commoners in the lighted world a thing or two."
</p><p>"Maybe you will," replied Yeslin with a smile and a salute. He turned
to go.
</p><p>And that was when the true strangeness arrived.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wade stood blocking the closed door. He made no effort to move away.
His gaze flicked over Yeslin's shoulder. Hearing steps behind him, Yeslin
turned to see that the stokers had all gathered close to him. They were
frowning.
</p><p>Yeslin cleared his throat. "Is something wrong?"
</p><p>Leo gestured with his hand. "Just hand it over, lad."
</p><p>"Hand what over?" Yeslin felt sweat begin to trickle down his back.
</p><p>"You know what we want," said Jerry, who had taken out his penknife
and was playing with the blades. "The ballad. Give it here."
</p><p>Yeslin's expression must have been amusing to watch, for Curt's frown
broke into a grin. "What, you think we're all fools?"
</p><p>"Evidently not," said Yeslin, trying to estimate his chances for survival.
</p><p>"'Evidently not,'" mimicked Wade from behind him. "You still got that
elite way of saying things."
</p><p>"And you still got that elite way of thinking." Leo shook his head,
looking more sad than angry. "Lad, let me give you a hint that will do
you good in your life: We commoners, all of us, think things through together.
We make our decisions together. Now, it doesn't take much thought to figure
that, if you took all the trouble you did to come down to this dungeon,
it was because you wanted to find out what was going on here and tell the
lighted world. You wanted to sing the lighted world a ballad. That right?
You going to break your oath of silence?"
</p><p>Yeslin cleared his throat. "Not exactly."
</p><p>Curt shrugged. "He probably thinks the oath is less important than the
ballad."
</p><p>"Aye, well." Jerry scratched the back of his neck. "We all thought that
once. And maybe you could sing a ballad that wouldn't be bad, that wouldn't
hurt the prisoners. But you didn't ask for our help!"
</p><p>"You didn't ask for our help," Leo agreed. "You just made that decision
on your own, the way elite men do. That's your trouble, lad. You're not
thinking yet like commoners do."
</p><p>The truth was a good deal more complicated than the stokers realized,
Yeslin knew. Yeslin's distrust – his deep distrust of allowing other folk
control over his decisions – came not from his time with the elite, but
from his years of being misused at the hands of his birth-parents. Yet
perhaps there was a seed of truth to what the stokers thought. Perhaps
Yeslin had begun to think of "leadership" the way that the elite did: he
had thought that leadership consisted of a man imposing his will on men
and women below him.
</p><p>"You're right," he acknowledged. "I haven't been much of a leader to
you. But I'll be better after this, since I was smart enough to pick the
best place in the Queendom of Yclau to start my guild: a place where commoners
really look out for one another." He let his gaze fall on all of the stokers
present, whose expressions had turned embarrassed.
</p><p>Still standing behind him, Wade said, "That's all talk. You give us
the ballad, boy."
</p><p>He laughed lightly, pulling the written ballad from his trousers pocket.
Like any good balladeer, he already had the ballad memorized and could
recite it from heart if the stokers chose to tear it up. But if they chose
to tear it up, then it wasn't the correct ballad to sing in any case.
</p><p>"All right," he said, turning to hand the ballad to the guild's chapter
leader. "Let me know whether I've sung this wrong. But in the meantime,
I want to tell you about another ballad I have in mind. It's about a group
of stokers who were willing to suffer for the sake of the prisoners. .
. ."
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>o—o—o
<br/>o—o—o</p>
</div><p>. . . We may never know what caused the young Seeker to depart from
the shadow of his mentor, but if we examine closely the wording of Elsdon
Taylor's initial protests in the year 360, we can see that he must have
had some sort of contact with the Commoners' Guild.
</p><p>The mystery is how such contact was made. In 360, the now-world-famous
guild had barely begun. Textbooks proclaim its earliest activities to have
taken place late in the sixth month of 360, when a series of protests and
strikes by commoners threatened to tear apart the heart of Yclau's capital.
Even the guild's young founder, Yeslin Bainbridge, expressed surprise at
how his ideas spread like wildfire among the queendom's commoners. (See
Appendix F, "The Ballad of the Dying Prisoner – Bainbridge 360:1," and
Appendix G, "The Ballad of the Stokers – Bainbridge 360:2.")
</p><p>But how could those revolutionary notions have taken hold of Elsdon
Taylor, at almost the exact same moment? How could a torturer, who had
spent all his life as a member of the aristocracy, embrace within a handful
of days a message that was aimed at the working class?
</p><p>Various attempts by historians to link the names of Yeslin Bainbridge
and Elsdon Taylor have failed; Elsdon Taylor entered the Eternal Dungeon
when Yeslin Bainbridge was a mere fourteen years old, and we know almost
nothing about the childhood and youth of either of these important historical
figures. If the men ever had contact with each other in later years, they
were both exceedingly discreet about that contact. The idea that Yeslin
Bainbridge should have started his guild by visiting Elsdon Taylor, while
a dramatic notion, has no grounding in historical evidence.
</p><p>Until now the mystery of Elsdon Taylor's shift in balance has remained
unresolved. But a new document, discovered by this author in the royal
archives, sheds light on the matter. It is a request from the Eternal Dungeon's
day supervisor, Weldon Chapman, for the retraining of all the dungeon's
stokers, in order to permit them to run the electrically powered furnaces
that were about to be installed. Such a request for laborers' retraining
had never been made in the Eternal Dungeon . . . until the date of the
document, the sixth month of 360.
</p><p>Did Yeslin Bainbridge somehow manage to make contact with the dungeon's
stokers? Or did those stokers witness the earliest outbreaks of commoner
fervor and decide on their own initiative to take action to better their
lives? Whatever the cause may have been, the stirrings among the stokers,
who worked just outside the Seekers' living cells, must have been witnessed
by Elsdon Taylor. Perhaps the stokers' desire to improve their work conditions
helped to bring to the surface some doubts that Elsdon Taylor had long
held concerning his own work.
</p><p>All this is speculation, perhaps no more fruitful than the speculation
about Elsdon Taylor's bedroom activities. What is not speculation – what
is firm historical fact – is that the stokers, as well as many other commoners,
would play a quiet but highly significant role in the upcoming conflict
within the Eternal Dungeon.
</p><p>I must turn now – reluctantly, because of the painful nature of that
conflict – to the internal war that erupted in the Eternal Dungeon in the
year 360. But before doing so, I would like us to pause and look back at
the peaceful period which preceded that war. Layle Smith had healed, as
much as he ever would, from the effects of his madness. He was at peace
with himself and with his friends in the Eternal Dungeon: Elsdon Taylor
and Weldon Chapman. He had received renewed indication of his senior night
guard's faithfulness. He had persuaded his old friend, the High Master
of the Hidden Dungeon, to make reforms in that dungeon. He had returned
to his satisfying work of assisting prisoners to recognize the gravity
of their crimes.
</p><p>We can only imagine the shock he must have experienced from the events
that followed. What we do know – for all the evidence before us demonstrates
this – is that the peace and love which Layle Smith stored within himself
during the year before the conflict broke out would remain deep within
him, until the appropriate moment would come for him to share it with others.
</p><p>—<i>Psychologists with Whips: A History of the Eternal Dungeon.</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>o—o—o
<br/>o—o—o
<br/>o—o—o</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The Balance | Historical Note</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b><i>Truth and Lies</i></b>
</p>
<p>I can safely say that this story was more difficult for me to research
than any other I have written. Not only for emotional reasons but because,
at the time I researched the novella (from 2003 to 2004), fewer historical
texts existed online, so it wasn't easy for me to locate information about
the exact details of what took place when prisoners were racked.
</p>
<p>I was therefore working from only a handful of primary sources: William
Lithgow's account of his racking in 1620 (reprinted in J. Bronowski's <i>The
Ascent of Man</i>), John Gerard's account of being hung from manacles around
his wrists in 1597 (reprinted in <i>Eyewitness to History</i>, edited by
John Carey), and one or two other accounts I no longer recall.
</p>
<p>The most striking aspect of Father Gerard's account is his repeated
assertion that his torturers felt pity for him. The account is filled with
passages like this:<br/>
 
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <i>My [warder] brought me back to my room. His eyes seemed swollen with tears. . . . Personally, I believe [the Governor of the Tower of London ordered my release because] he was moved by compassion, for some time after my escape a gentleman of position told me that he had heard Sir Richard Berkeley, this same Lieutenant, say that he had freely resigned his office because he no longer wished to be an instrument in such torture of innocent men.</i>
  </p>
</blockquote><p><br/>
Similar tales are told of other torturers during that time. Even
allowing for dramatic exaggeration, it does appear that the literary trope
of the Kind-hearted Torturer has some basis in fact. I think it's unlikely,
though, that any torturers went as far as Layle Smith did in an attempt
to assist his prisoner.<br/>
 
</p>
<p><b><i>Barbarians</i> &amp; <i>Hidden</i></b>
</p>
<p>"Barbarians" and "Hidden" owe their existence to Anne Blue, who asked
that I write an Eternal Dungeon story for her CD-zine,
<i>MAS-Zine</i>.
I gave her two. Their publication was accompanied by the following author's
note:<br/>
 
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><i> The editor of </i>MAS-Zine<i> has asked me to mention how I got the idea for "Hidden." As a teenager I saw a zoo exhibit that told how a specialist had been bitten by a snake that he thought to be nonvenomous but turned out not to be. Under such circumstances, I would have been screaming and sobbing. However, the exhibit stated that the snake specialist spent his dying moments recording his symptoms.</i></p>
  <p>
    <i> Alas, while checking on this story to write this note, I've
discovered that the actual story is not quite so colorful as I recalled
it: the herpetologist in question (Karl P. Schmidt, who died in Chicago
in 1957) did not realize he was dying. However, there are many other cases
in history of people carefully recording the circumstances of their death
for the sake of posterity - for example, the diary of Robert Falcon Scott
on his failed expedition to Antarctica (<a href="http://gutenberg.org/ebooks/6721">http://gutenberg.org/ebooks/6721</a>).
It was while I was thinking about what sort of person it would take to
be able to keep his mind on his duties while dying that the idea for "Hidden"
popped into my head.</i>
  </p>
</blockquote><p><br/>
<b><i>Death Watch</i></b>
</p>
<p>To any scholar wishing to spend a few years researching the primary
sources of an obscure topic, I suggest that they tackle the history of
fisting (placing a hand or arm inside an anus or vagina). From the scant
sources I've been able to track down, it appears to me that fisting was
a rare sexual activity before the twentieth century, but not entirely unknown.
</p>
<p>The 1880s (when this story is set) is the decade when some physicians
began to wash their hands before surgery, a practice that remained controversial
for a number of years.<br/>
 
</p>
<p><b><i>Balladeer</i></b>
</p>
<p>There is a passing reference in this story to a strike at Miller's Rubber
Stamp Manufactory. This story is set in the alternate-universe equivalent
of 1881, in the alternate-universe equivalent of Luray, Virginia (site
of a certain famous set of limestone caves). According to <i>Chataigne's
Virginia Gazetteer and Classified Business Directory, 1884-1885</i>, J.
F. Miller &amp; Co. ran a rubber stamp manufactory in Luray at that time.
I know nothing about the business beyond that fact.
</p>
<p>With much publicity, electric lights were introduced to Luray Caverns
in 1881. This is sheer, happy coincidence; the date of the Eternal Dungeon's
electrification was determined by events in prior stories.
</p>
<p>In Britain, the 1880s was the decade when unions of unskilled laborers
began to be popular. (In the United States, these unions started slightly
earlier.) Before then, the uniting of workers had occurred mainly in guilds
and craft unions, whose membership was confined to a select number of skilled
workers.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><i>Editors:</i> <a href="http://maureenlycaon-dw.dreamwidth.org/">Maureen Lycaon</a>, <a href="https://kadymae.livejournal.com/profile">Kadymae</a>, and Tracy Shaw.</p>
<p><i>Editorial assistants:</i> <a href="http://slashbluegreen.livejournal.com/profile">Anne Blue</a>, CJ, and Joe Noakes.</p>
<p><a href="http://duskpeterson.com/cvhep.htm#balladeer">Publication history</a>.</p>
<p>This story was published by way of <a href="http://duskpeterson.com">duskpeterson.com</a>. The story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Copyright © 2013, 2016, 2020 Dusk Peterson. Permission is granted for fanworks inspired by this story. Please credit Dusk Peterson and duskpeterson.com for the original story.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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